


Moments Stolen

by ossseous (ozean)



Series: Moments Stolen [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Class Differences, M/M, Master & Servant, Mutual Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: Earlier, as Mr. Graves bathed, he’d laid out his wardrobe for the day.  Each piece set side by side across Mr. Graves’ recently made bed.  It was something he had done every day for almost a year and yet, every time he did it, he did it just as gently and precisely as the first day he’d gotten the job.  His fingers, rough from menial work and his mother’s cane, would rub over the wool, callouses catching lightly on stray fibers.  It sounded nothing like the light sigh of cotton gliding over Mr. Graves’ skin.Or the valet AU that I don't think anyone actually asked for but here it is.





	

The whisper of cloth against skin, indelicate and yet still gentle behind the screen, was a sound he’d long since become used to.

Earlier, as Mr. Graves bathed, he’d laid out his wardrobe for the day.  Each piece set side by side across Mr. Graves’ recently made bed.  It was something he had done every day for almost a year and yet, every time he did it, he did it just as gently and precisely as the first day he’d gotten the job.  His fingers, rough from menial work and his mother’s cane, would rub over the wool, callouses catching lightly on stray fibers.  It sounded nothing like the light sigh of cotton gliding over Mr. Graves’ skin.

The evening before, the fabric had been hot to the touch, ironed on the kitchen table as the cook readied dough for the next morning’s meal.  She laughed at him, amused by how he pulled the iron over each precious item of his wardrobe.  But he didn’t pay her any mind. Instead he found himself transfixed, mesmerized by how a fabric--once blemished by wrinkles from the wash--could become something so smooth and pristine.  Worthy of its owner.

Once he finished, Mr. Graves rounded the screen, pulling his suspenders one after the other over his shoulders.  Before he could even make it to the mirror, Credence had the vest ready for him to slip is arms into.  It had become a mechanical routine, a flawless execution they’d synchronized in the months since he’d entered the Graves household.  At first, he had worried that the exchange was odd.  Perhaps they should’ve chattered, exchanged idle gossip, shared their opinions on current events.  After all, the relationship between the master of the house and his valet was one of comradery and mutual respect.

Yet he was too nervous in his first days to even speak up beyond necessity.  Mr. Graves didn’t seem to mind though and Credence later came to suspect that he even appreciated the quiet.  Thus, they set a precedent, if by accident, for their voiceless morning routine.

Mr. Graves buttoned his own vest, glancing over his reflection in the mirror.  Perhaps the biggest thrill of their exchange came from the simple fact that he trusted Credence to choose his clothes for him.  Not that there was great variation within his collection of shirts and trousers and suits and ties to choose from.  Whilst many men of Mr. Graves’ status enjoyed displaying their wealth and importance with the latest fashion, Credence couldn’t help but feel a shock of affection once he learned that Mr. Graves was in fact always slightly behind the others in his class.  Not enough to look dowdy or unkempt by any means.  But enough to challenge Credence as he tried to put together something fitting of the revolving door of fashion changes.

It meant that his alterations went unnoticed, that his color choices didn’t bat an eye.  Or at least, not the eye that mattered.  He slid the blue tie, the navy check barely even noticeable, around his collar and cinched it tight.  In those moments of proximity, he never once dared to let his eyes wander up.  Upwards lied the expanse of his neck, exposed as Mr. Graves tilted his head back just the slightest bit to give Credence space.  He tucked the end into the vest, stepping back enough to allow him room to turn, to regard himself in the mirror once more.  Credence let his eyes inspect him as well and noticed the slight gap between the band of his trousers and the vest.  Leaving the house even with the slight hint of his shirt exposed would be sloppy, so he reached out.

He didn’t know if it was a moment of bravery or stupidity as he slipped his arms just beneath Mr. Graves’ own.  He hooked his fingers along the hem of the vest and tugged it down in an easy movement.  But Mr. Graves didn’t seem to question it and only lifted his arms minutely, to give him room to work.

If that wasn’t his moment of stupidity, it must have been the moment that followed.  The moment when he felt his chin brush against the strong line of his shoulder and didn’t immediately pull it away.  The moment when he let his eyes fall shut.  The moment he wondered how it could be that he never knew Mr. Graves’ scent before.  Had he not been paying attention?  Had he never been close enough?  He breathed in deep, appreciating the smell of soap that lingered to his skin, still clinging from his last bath.

Such proximity threatened to unfurl something inside of him.  A thing he kept locked up tight and hidden away.  But each second that passed let his thoughts unspool. Spiraling down to a single desire--to press his lips to that skin.  The patch just below his ear, just above his starched collar.  He wondered if it would be soft.  Wondered if he would finally, really know how close a shave he could get, tested by the sensitive skin of his lips.  He wanted to know how it would feel to press his nose along the back of his ear, to scrape his teeth along the shell.  What noises could he draw from this man?

His mind nearly blanked at the thought as he blinked himself back into the present.  A safer place, far removed from that impossible non-future that did not belong anywhere but secreted away. Perhaps tucked in some closet of thoughts he dared not peak into, one he knew was overstuffed--that just a turn of the knob would send him tumbling back, lost beneath an avalanche of subdued wants, desires, cravings.

But in those lost seconds he found he had pressed along the length of Mr. Graves’ back, fingers still tucked into the hem of the vest, tight enough to threaten a wrinkle.  Shoulders sagged as Mr. Graves, having been holding a breath, slowly let it out.  He summoned some kind of courage, enough to look up to the mirror, to regard Mr. Graves’ face.

But he found his eyes shut, head tilted just the slightest bit towards him.

He didn’t know how long he looked his fill, still hunched forward, chin pressed to that shoulder.  Perhaps in part he was terrified of the moment Mr. Graves would open his eyes and confront him with this grievous sin.  There was no way he could not feel the longing that ached in every muscle of his body.  No way he could no longer know.

But a hand lifted slowly and circled his wrist.  He expected the touch to be painful, to wrench him away from what he held dearest.  That was the only kind of touch he had known.

But it was gentle.  He couldn’t even feel the contact of skin, except for the single brush of a fingertip just past his cuff.  A slight squeeze, as though to let him know it was time to let go. 

So, he did.  He drew back, unfurling his fingers from the fabric.  He let his hands drop to Mr. Graves' hips for half a moment before he pulled away altogether.  If it was to be his last day working in the Graves household, he figured he could take at least that.

Extricated from Mr. Graves, he could no longer gather enough bravery to search out his expression.  He couldn’t look at his shoulder, at his back.  He could only look at his shoes, polished earlier that week and laces tied in a neat, even bow.

He waited for admonishment, anger, disgust, seething revulsion, to be driven from the city once and for all.  Perhaps, he thought, once his mother heard the news, she’d finally beat him to death.  But the voice he heard was neither loud or quiet.  Only even and if anything, unmoved.

“The jacket.”

It took him a moment to process it, to understand what he was saying.  He stumbled back a step to retrieve it, lifting it up and felt a lurch in his chest as Mr. Graves slipped his arms into the sleeves as though nothing had happened.  As soon as they finished they swept from the room and slipped into their usual routine of Mr. Graves relaying what he could remember of his schedule for the day and Credence confirming his plans.  Once they got to the door, Credence handed him his gloves and his homburg and without another word, Mr. Graves stepped out onto the street.

Credence shut the door behind him and let out a shaky breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope to make this AU a sort of series of vignettes if that makes sense? I did an unnecessary amount of research on clothes and valets to write this so I feel like continuing like what made it in here isn't even the tip of the iceberg of everything I learned lol. 
> 
> Anyways, come yell at me on [tumblr](https://ossseous.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also lowkey this belatedly makes me think of that Gilmore Girls episode where Lane like, randomly ran her fingers through that guy’s hair bc she had no chill I think Credence would relate in this situation.


End file.
